


Riding Rhymes

by graiai



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Kink, Erotic Poetry, Finger Sucking, M/M, Vocabulary Lessons as Dirty Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graiai/pseuds/graiai
Summary: Alphinaud is far too old to need someone to read to him.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt/Alphinaud Leveilleur
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Riding Rhymes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovelit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelit/gifts).



Alphinaud is far too old to need someone to read to him, and his excuse—that he still struggles with the lingua aldena, and cannot intuit such an unfamiliar metre—sounds weak to even his ears, all the moreso that he provided it in the language in question. Urianger must see him straight through.

Though casting the most dubious of glances, Urianger shakes his head with a sigh and grants, “As thou wilt.” Alphinaud can but hope it is not wishful thinking which reads fondness in the turn of his lips. “Thou mayst attend to the readings from my knee.”

“I—oh,” Alphinaud says, on shaky breath. This, he was unprepared for: even were he to be humoured, his most self-indulgent of hopes was to sit across from Urianger, leaning into the desk chair’s plush arm and watching his lips as he read. To sit in his _lap_ —!

“Having thee second thoughts?” Urianger is audibly amused; likely, Alphinaud thinks, this was by design, being treated as if a child the cost of a childish request.

But Alphinaud will gladly accept a charge of immaturity to curl up in Urianger’s lap. “No,” he argues, a mite too sharply, and clambers up before Urianger can test his resolve once more—better he think it a brave face than pry free the more embarassing truth.

Alphinaud has known Urianger since he and Alisaie were still so small there were clothes for fancy porcelain dolls in their dresser; he has had a crush on his grandfather’s student (and his occasional babysitter) since his seventh summer. Half his life he’s wanted for Urianger’s attention, since those afternoons he eavesdropped at his grandfather’s door, the two speaking of ætherology in Sharlayan that then sounded as foreign to Alphinaud’s ear as any dialect in their reading.

Urianger then had hardly begun his formal studies, and had no particular aptitude for the practical application of arcanima: instead, it was his passion for theory which had caught Louisoix’s interest. Alphinaud had spent hours sitting in the hall outside his grandfather’s office sketching notes on terms of interest (and portraits of Urianger) while they looked over Urianger’s thesis research, a study of what Alphinaud came in time to understand was the geometric underpinnings of ancient prophecy, directionless æther manipulated to powerful arcane ends not by glyphs but the recitation of the words alone.

Alphinaud found it all fascinating; he longed to join their discussions, and moreover to earn Urianger’s place in his grandfather’s study as well as his esteem. He never had the chance to achieve the latter, but in the years following Louisoix’s death, Urianger has taken care to involve himself in Alphinaud’s life and education: _where thy grandfather could not_ , Urianger had said once, when pressed as to why, _and thy father will not_.

Perhaps a better son would have come to his father’s defense, but Urianger had not spoken false: even now he is fulfilling a lack. Alphinaud can remember no single occasion in which his father had read aloud to him; at fourteen and well-read in all manner of theory, literature, and law, certainly any chance of it had past long ago.

Perhaps, too, Urianger is only indulging him, but perched atop his knee and chest warm at his back, Alphinaud is intent not to tarnish this moment overthinking his goals. Even if for Urianger this means nothing, for Alphinaud, the closeness is world-shattering in its import, Urianger’s strong arms bracketing him, his chin bumping against the top of his head with a reflexive movement as he turns the page. His smooth, low voice reads at a steady pace, the metre entrancing as any chant—and Alphinaud finds he’s missed the title of the poem they are nominally reading together, along with its first line.

He steels his focus on the shapes of the words on the page, urging himself away from the sound of them on Urianger’s tongue—enunciated carefully though in conversation and indeed reading he can speak as fluently as any from the continent, and to Alphinaud’s ear nearly without accent. His aptitude toward language surpasses even Alphinaud’s own, capable of learning from study what most require years of deliberate practice to achieve. That which they read now is merely to him a hobby, and still he might be granted leave to instruct it should enough interested students ever appear; in his mind’s eye Alphinaud can imagine Urianger in his own chambers having exchanged his Studium attire for nightclothes, pen between his lips as he composes his lessons.

But Alphinaud is yet proving himself an unworthy student. If pressed he could identify this poem as a chivalric romance, and for the few words he has managed to truly hear, could guess as to its plot: a foolish knight-errant following the whims of a would-be lover. She may be a faerie, or a changeling of some sort—the text has seemingly yet to confirm it but hints through wordplay, which Alphinaud believes only serves to strengthen his argument. But Urianger is not like to ask him; though he frequently offers knowledge he seeks not to be as a teacher, but something else Alphinaud struggles to name in any tongue available to him. A mentor, perhaps, is closest—not peer enough to be called a friend, but fond of his charge all the same.

In any case, the fae antagonist intends to put her would-be lover through trials, sending him out on all manner of dangerous errands for her amusement in the name of proving his dedication to her. This much Alphinaud is quite confident in, having read ahead several lines in the text in hope that he might then allow himself to loll in Urianger’s arms, low voice resounding in the broad chest of an Elezen grown at Alphinaud’s back, hearing without listening for want of absorbing the meanings in each clear syllable—

But he must first lean forward in order to read the page, as he is supposed to. Even accommodating Alphinaud in his lap Urianger’s chair is not placed far from the table, and there is no need for Urianger to hold him about the waist for stability, to a slight regret Alphinaud dare not let himself express. Grateful is he, then, that near always when he reads to himself his fingers find their way to his mouth in some sort of instinct or habit, as he realizes at once he has taken the very tip of his thumb between his lips.

Even that cannot quiet him when, as he cranes to read the final lines on the page that pose no trouble for Urianger at his height, a lock of his hair that must have slipped from its braid falls across his eyes, and with a pause in his reading but without hesitation Urianger tucks it gently behind his ear.

Alphinaud can hear in the flattened vowels the curl of Urianger’s smile when he says, “Dost thou wish to read on? The next page is thine to test thy skill upon, if only thou biddeth so.”

His thumb slips from his mouth when he tips his head back to catch Urianger’s eyes, a strand of saliva pulled along before breaking over Alphinaud’s pink lip. He blinks up at Urianger, heat burning high in his cheeks and…elsewhere…and admits, “I’d prefer listening to you.”

“Mm,” says Urianger, playing thoughtfulness. “In that case, Master Alphinaud, I shall be inquiring after thy comprehension. Art thou yet amenable?” He maintains unwavering eye contact throughout, and Alphinaud feels very much as though he has been taken the measure of.

“I—yes.”

As Urianger turns the page, Alphinaud shifts in his lap, hyperaware of the way his warm thigh presses against his own shorts’ bulky center seam (school uniform sturdy and made to last).

The poem’s protagonist has met a man who was once in his place, it seems: a man aged beyond his years and scarred for doing unquestioningly as his lady bid. Urianger reads the man’s warning with as serious a mien as prophecy were due, low and nearly _stern_ in countenance. The knight-errant recoils from the accusations his new acquaintance has levelled against his lady love, that she has used her charms to forge a weapon of him to wield for her amusements.

“Her ‘charms’ are spells, yes? Arcanima?” Alphinaud asks.

“Fairly intuited,” Urianger confirms, pleased. He rests his hand upon Alphinaud’s slim shoulder. “No Eorzean now living intendeth the word interpreted so unless wordplay be their goal, but in times past, any man or woman called ‘charming’ was verily understood by a reader to commandeth the very motions of his victims’ æther, actions, thoughts, and feelings all.”

“These villains of the romances of eld are…nearly like Primals, then—only lacking in divinity. Is that what makes them villains in Eorzean eyes? That they wield the abilities of their gods, but are not themselves hallowed?”

“Mayhap thou wilt examine the potentiality in thine essay due at moon’s end.” At Alphinaud’s whine, he appends, “I eagerly await thine argument.”

Alphinaud hopes desperately, even a touch pathetically, that Urianger speaks true: he has for his whole life been a clever child but no more in anyone’s eyes, able perhaps to absorb what he is taught but in the way of any child hardly a _conversationalist_ —despite his nearly three years on the Studium’s debate team. The thought Urianger _awaits_ these meetings, _eagerly_ even… When Alphinaud leans back into the heat and bulk of Urianger’s chest, the back of his head against his breastbone, he is blinking back tears borne of the breadth of his feelings, gratitude and admiration and adoration all so great it for a moment feels overwhelming. Were he the praying sort, he would kneel tonight at his bedside and entreat the Twelve for their favor.

Urianger’s hand slips down from Alphinaud’s shoulder to below the elbow, and his thumb rubs soft, rhythmically across the sensitive skin there. Alphinaud shivers, and takes his lower lip between his teeth to gnaw as Urianger takes up the reading once more.

“Couth is she, fair wise to whet a cunning cunt,  
“Kept quaint in all but chastity. So pert  
“In wielding shield and sheath, full obeisaunt  
“Bladès all be—took fast in hand overt.”

Alphinaud frowns. “What is that pun? I’m unfamiliar with the word.”

“To which bit of wordplay dost thou refer?” For there are many in the stanza, Alphinaud can recognize, being favored by the poet—and anyone could find the bawdy joke in a blade taken in hand. That joke exists in every language.

“‘Cunt’,” says Alphinaud. “‘Tis said twice in quick succession, so there must be a double-meaning.”

“Very good, Master Alphinaud.” Urianger’s voice in his ear, low and cream-smooth. “The words are twain, of late diverged in pronunciation, tho’ spake them the poet as one and the same.”

Alphinaud finds himself quite unsuccessfully swallowing down a gasp, and he can feel the heat in his cheeks burning and burning. Inside, he clenches, and it takes all the fortitude he can find within himself not to rock on Urianger’s thigh.

“‘Quaint’, the latter use, uttered now as _kwaynt_ , hath the meaning of a thing or person quite singular in ken or quality—a craftsman or craft of renown. The first use,” continues Urianger, “a modern man saith _cunt_.” This he pronounces with a odd sort of delicateness, as if the word itself need be handled with a careful tongue. “I am unsurprised thy studies have been remiss in acquainting thee with such vulgarism—‘tis the Eorzean manner to refer to the vulva. Akin to,” and then Urianger says an absolutely _filthy_ word, something Alphinaud has only read once, in a novel he realized too late was meant for a more mature audience than he. Had Alphinaud acceded to continue the reading at the turn of the page ‘twould have been his own lips which uttered it—as well Urianger must have known in so entreating him.

“O- _oh_ ,” Alphinaud breathes.

“Knowing now the vocabulary, canst thou tell me the couplet’s meaning?”

It’s become difficult to think, when there is so much heat coiled in the pit of his stomach, and lower in the space between the sharp edges of his hips, when he can so well feel Urianger’s strength and warmth and—Alphinaud dare not think true _desire_ , for there is a heat pressing unassailable at his lower back, but if it be only reflexive, a natural reaction to a wriggling body in his lap and naught else, Alphinaud does not wish to believe even for a moment it might be more and have his hopes dashed for it. “I,” he says hesitant, and, “She’s said to be couth, so it must be—the poet makes a bawdy joke of it, but she’s saying it’s well known the lady courts men without ever intending to marry. That she’s using her wiles—t-that is, the promise of her sex—to string along potential lovers.”

“Not quite,” says Urianger. “‘Tis a fair interpretation, but entirely too tactful. The lady _doth_ wisely manipulate men, but promises of marital bliss be not her preferred tool.”

His words are not lewd, but something in Urianger’s manner feels as though it _is_ , not only the damning press at his back but a grit to his voice which had not been present when they began. Alphinaud has only these to assure his own arousal is not unwanted, but they are enough he allows himself rock his hips to take what he may from Urianger’s offered thigh—he wants so desperately to touch himself, but Urianger has said nothing Alphinaud could construe as permission, nor has his own hand made the easy journey from Alphinaud’s arm to his upper thigh, mostly bare in his school uniform. Before biting his knuckles to stay his hand, Alphinaud asks, “Is—is there something in the vocabulary which makes you say so with such surety?”

Urianger slaps his hand away, a light rebuke, and to Alphinaud’s wonderment and desperation both, his fingers are fast replaced with Urianger’s own pressed into his open mouth. “Thou must refrain from hurting thyself,” he says sternly, and then as if naught has occurred, as if Alphinaud cannot feel Urianger full and heavy at his back as he sucks on his fingers, he continues on with his lecture. “Look thee only to the next couplet. What is a blade, in metaphor? Dost thou know?”

His eyes fluttering closed, Alphinaud nods. Urianger’s thumb rests under his chin, only the tips of two of his fingers—for without effort he could press too far—past Alphinaud’s lips, slick already from his own efforts. He lets them lay heavy on Alphinaud’s tongue, but Alphinaud is quite certain it is his own doing which bids them move: their lines rough though an academic’s calluses come from pens alone, and clean of all but traces of stray ink which so tends to collect in nailbeds. Overpowering enough in his mouth he dares think of one such hand between his legs—and he must curl his own small fingers into the soft, dark linen of the postgraduate educator’s robes pooled in Urianger’s lap beneath him. Were his mouth not full (and Thaliak be praised it is) he fears he would forsake the lesson, and ask to be touched.

“When a thing is ‘overt’, ‘tis meant no manner of concealment is attempted—in this case, the lady’s intent be not kept secret—but it may also carry the meaning of removing a thing from one’s clothes. The sheath she wields with such alacrity,” he continues, “is, of course, her cunt.” Alphinaud moans wanton around his fingers, imagining the layers separating the two of them gone, Urianger’s length against his bare skin, slick where the head drags against the knobs of his spine, a matching wetness smeared across the bulk of Urianger’s thigh. “It doth win the lady her knight’s fain obedience—even confronted directly with her machinations will he jump to her defense.

“He must count himself lucky, then, that the culmination of the poem—as thou shalt see upon thy completion of the reading—maketh clear the lady’s goal is no nefarious scheme, but only a desire to see men kneel at her feet.” A tone in his voice suggests there is some hidden joke Alphinaud is not privy to; when he lets out a noise of confusion, garbled around Urianger’s fingers, he offers in explanation, “Simply another bawdy joke. A vulgar metaphor used of both cunt and cock. So when ‘tis said one kneels at another’s feet…” Urianger trails off.

Alphinaud needn’t have _this_ spelled out for him; even lacking specific experience he can well imagine what one might do kneeling before another’s sex. He imagines briefly Urianger’s head between his own thighs, but more appealing—and with the sweat-sharp tang of Urianger’s fingers heavy on his tongue, far more real—is the thought of taking him past his lips.

 _He_ would not be able to kneel, but have to stand upright—and that if he could take Urianger properly into his mouth at all, or if he would only be able to lick at the length. Alphinaud hopes that it would fit, that it _will_ , when next Urianger has him—when first he has him _properly_. With practice, he thinks, he might well be able to please him, but until such time Urianger would not judge him for clumsiness; rather guide him as he has through the pages before them, encouraging Alphinaud in his attempts and offering valuable correction with a gentle hand when it is clear Alphinaud would benefit from it.

He’s uncertain he could even withstand the weight of so much attention placed on him. Even now his blush burns to the very tips of his ears simply to be held in Urianger’s lap, grateful for the fingers which fill his mouth lest he plead for yet _more_ —but there is no need, for Urianger is a steady presence at his back, has in the seven years Alphinaud thinks perhaps he has loved him never faltered in that self-appointed duty to care for him where Alphinaud’s father never so much as made an attempt he could fail. He has always been safe in Urianger’s arms, has never been given a reason to feel _unsafe_ , and it is nothing he says which at last brings Alphinaud over the edge at last to come untouched shaking in his arms, but rather that Urianger holds him at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Some trivia, for the interested!
> 
> 1) “Lingua franca”, a common term for a bridge language, originally applied to a specific language of commerce in later Byzantium. The “Common” of Eorzea is a language of commerce as well, and I have a feud with the way that term normalizes linguistic imperialism, so here Alphinaud refers to the “lingua aldena”, derived from the word Aldenard. “Lingua eorzea” was considered, but sounded less like an adapted term and more like Latin For The Sake Of It. 
> 
> 2) Riding rhymes are enjambed heroic couplets (that is, lines of rhyming iambic pentameter which often continue a phrase or sentence after a line break); in the Middle English canon, you can find this metre in Chaucer. Meanwhile, alliterative verse (a mainstay of poetry written in Germanic languages such as Anglo-Saxon/Old English) had a revival in Middle English literature, the Gawain Poet being a notable example. The poem Urianger is reading incorporates both of these structures: forms like this are attested in medieval poems such as _Þree ded kynges_ (“Three Dead Kings”). The content itself is similarly graphic to the poems _Der Rosendorn_ (“The Rose Thorn”) and _Cywydd y gont_ (“Poem to the Cunt”), both of which I strongly suggest looking up some time. Though written in Middle English, the poem in the fic is presented with modern spellings; in some ways, this can be more confusing, as meanings of some words have shifted over time, but preference was given to legibility. In both the real world and in theirs ( _Encyclopædia Eorzea_ offhandedly mentions that normalized spelling has yet to catch on), the text would probably look more like this (spellings presented here are consistent with texts from the NW Midlands):
> 
> _Cuþ is she, fair vise to whetteþ connand cuinte_  
>  _Kepþ cuinte in al but chestete. Swa perte_  
>  _In wolden scilde an scede, ful obeiciaunt_  
>  _Blades al biþ—toc faste in hond uverte._


End file.
